


Another Self-Insert-ish Fanfic

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crack, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Modern Boy in Thedas, Modern Era, Self-Insert, Thedas, Welsh Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Llewellyn Serin passed away, he certainly did not expect waking up in a filthy forest floor and being called Dalen by some Lord of the Rings LARPER with nifty face paint who found him all alone and called themselves Dalish. Wait. What?Now, Serin must navigate through Thedas without dying and make sure he saves it at the end of it all. Except he's a wimp and pretty much pop culture garbage who accidentally died from eating Reese's and then ended up getting stung by a bee.Jesus fucking Christ does he need a drink.





	Another Self-Insert-ish Fanfic

Serin was never one for religion. He remembered declaring Satanism at thirteen, went with Cthulhu worship six months later, agnosticism at fifteen, atheism at nineteen, Pastafarian at twenty, and then finally settled to 'I acknowledge that there may be a higher omniscient, omnipresent, and all powerful being - but he is a dick garbage wad’ at twenty-three. 

 

It also happened that he died at twenty-three. While on a date with a cute engineering intern, eating some homemade sweets his date made, and then ended up getting stung by a bee. Adult onset of allergies can suck Serin's arse. Worse was that he got stung by an innocent bee who was trying to defend its pollen from a flailing human going into analeptic shock. Poor Francis Porter, his first introduction to same-sex dating ended up in accidental homicide by nuts.

 

Except, Serin was curiously not choking from gooey peanut butter and chocolate goodness, nor was he subjected to death by self-defence by a bee. As a matter of fact, his smoke-damaged lungs felt fresh and he was lying in something hard and cold. And it smelled very earthy with a strange musky-salty-coppery stench permeating it.

 

“Dalen, wake up.” A slender hand shook Serin, and he groaned. No, he doesn't want to wake up at fuck something hour in the morning, thank you very much. That came out as unintelligible grumbling, and then Serin's eyes snapped open. He sounded like a snot-nosed kid.

 

Serin's hands were definitely smaller, and everything else looked large as fuck. He also found the source of the stench, if the cooling bodies around him were any indication, it looked like a bunch of people got mauled by something with really sharp claws. 

 

There was a woman in leather armour and green cloth with a big stick with a crystal strapped on her back, and Serin's eyes kept wandering to her pointy ears and face paint (on second thought, it looked like honest to god tattoos). Was she some sort of LotR LARPER or something?

 

“What's going on?” Serin demanded, but it sounded more like a pathetic squeak. Then again, if he were in his _ actual _ body, he'd probably sound the same. The woman's (? Elf's?) eyes looked shiny and sad, as if she going to cry for his lost innocence or something. Not that he liked to be in the vicinity of dead bodies, but still!

 

Serin squawked in mortification when she pulled him into a tight hug. He tried wriggling out of her grasp, but he ended up making her hug him even tighter.

 

“We heard of elves escaping from Tevinter Imperium headed this way, but slavers caught up. Everyone was already gone when we arrived. Except for you,” she pulled back and there were big fat tears threatening to fall from her eyes. “The Creators have watched over you.”

 

Serin tried not to grimace at what he guessed to be their equivalent omnipresent and omniscient supernatural beings that liked people watching from afar at best, destructively meddling at worst. He very much wanted to point out that their Spaghetti overlord see them as mere extensions of their pasta machinations. Then again, she might not take kindly to the fact that wheat based carbohydrates-rich cuisine ruled the world. Instead Serin settled for: “Hope the bear mauled their arseholes too.”

 

Looked like Serin gets to keep his posh accent even when he's basically a tiny person now.

 

The elf (seriously, what was her name?) had some serious facial gymnastics. There was disapproval at the swearing, pity for his situation, and then appraisal for cursing whoever these slavers were. Wait, slavers?

 

Does that mean Serin ended up in some backarse fantasy medieval world? Well, shite.

 

“Where do we go now?” Serin vowed to improve his testosterone production once he hits puberty. Cracking voice, gangly limbs, hormones, and teenaged acne be damned. “I have nowhere to go.”

 

That's a very good point as well. Serin can't possibly live off from acorns and woodland creatures, wandering from place to place now, can he?

 

The woman smiled, hands on his shoulders. Somehow, Serin had a bad feeling about this. “I am Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel  of Clan Lavellan, an elf of the Dales.” She stood up and then ruffled Serin’s hair. Serin froze, his ears weren't that long, even when he was a kid. “And now, you too, are of Clan Lavellan. And I do apologise if I did not get your name, Dalen.”

 

“Serin,” he replied, too stunned to give his actual last name. The clan name thing sounded a little close to his actual one, but Serin was still too shocked by the fact that he too was now some fantasy elf. Why couldn't he have been a dragon or something?

 

“Andaran ashitan, Dalen. You are now Serin of Clan Lavellan. Come, let's get you cleaned up.”

 

With nowhere else to go, and too small to live on his own, Serin followed her.

 

\--------

 

Serin was worried he'd ended up as some lonesome hermit sustained by acorns and woodland creatures. Turned out, he'd be a hermit with a bunch of other hermits sustained by acorns and woodland creatures. Misery shared was misery eased, right?

 

Unused to traveling long distances, in his real life and this one, Keeper Deshanna carried him piggy-back style. The fact that he was light as a feather made Serin sullen.

 

During the walk, he had convinced himself this was his pre-mortem hallucination, a weird-arse dying dream. By the second hour, it was shrooms, marijuana, LSD, or some psychedelic in Francis's peanut butter cups. Half an hour later, Serin was admiring modern VR, so realistic to the point that he kept slapping mosquitoes taking a nip at his arms. When the two saw the camp, Serin had begrudgingly accepted that the FSM thought he'd be a fun chew toy.

 

“We're here, Dalen.” Keeper Deshanna set him down while a bunch of elves fuses over him and her. Serin was then spirited away by the elven equivalent of fussing mothers, and that was only then Serin noticed that he was just wearing filthy rags and some fancy looking chain anklet. Now they're taking it off.

 

Serin yelped when a bucket of barely warm water was dumped over him. The elven mother's scrubbed him thoroughly of woodland dirt and dried blood he just recently learned the existence of. Around fifteen minutes into his impromptu bath that Serin just realised something important. Where was he supposed to pee and do business number 2? Does he need to head 2 kilometres away from camp and dig a hole?

 

At least they had soap, even if it was just lard and lye. Serin would have cried if they didn't have soap. They also have this bathing… concoction? That was mint and lavender, and Serin appreciated it all the same. Clan Lavellan also had their equivalent of a toothbrush, which was a polished stick with… deer(?) hair. Serin made a mental note to disinfect the whole thing later with boiling water and alcohol.

 

Speaking of alcohol, the elves have plenty of kegs of some sort of ale with plenty of herbs. That'd probably be good enough to disinfect the toothbrush.

 

After his bath and subtly disinfecting the medieval toothbrush, Keeper Deshanna called the clan into a meeting. 

 

She made him sit next to her, and the rest of the elves gathered into a large circle around a large fire. There were about twelve more other kids, and all of them looked younger than Serin. A few elven parents held babies, but they didn't count as kids to Serin until they could scream themselves hoarse demanding candy and attention. Little shites just demanded basic sustenance at this point in life.

 

Then Deshanna started the clan meeting by summarising what happened at the start of the day. Serin was already lost at the mention of some Imperium. He barely paid attention to what she said, just observing the rest of the people gathered. They looked pretty pissed off, then pitying at him, and then pissed off again. At the end, Serin got sympathetic glances from many adult elves, and curiosity from rest of the kids. 

 

Then Deshanna finished up and everyone went on to their merry ways. Except for a few couples with their kids. An elven woman with dark skin and light hair approached him.

 

“Who will take care of you, Dalen?” she asked. Serin shrugged.

 

“Myself, I suppose.” They all looked twice as heartbroken by that. Had he been twenty three with dark circles under his eyes, they'd probably give him pointed looks and agree.

 

“What is Tevinter like?” One of the kids asked, her mother scolded her immediately.

 

“Dalen! You do not ask that!”

 

Serin shook his head. “It's fine.”

 

Speaking of which…. How did Serin end up in place of whoever this kid was? Granted it might have been his alternate self. He'd seen what he looked like as a twelve year old fantasy elf in the brass mirrors which was no different as his twelve year old real world self except for the long ears, and his complexion was pretty much the same rich kid pale. 

 

Does that mean Serin murdered his elf alternate because he was dead in his own world? Crap, he hated children, but that doesn't mean Serin wanted to hurt them!

 

That and everyone was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to share his “experience in Tevinter”. Ugh, what should tell these people?

 

For one thing, Serin never worked a day in his life, because menial housework was “for the maids and Kota, young master”. He spent most of the time indoors, with tutors and private lessons. If there was any sort of physical activity, it was for kendo and fencing. His dad was often abroad for business, and his mum always went back and forth between her family (abroad as well) and to some charity or fund-raising event for dem peasants as Serin knew she thought privately with a little hint of derision. Serin could count the number of times they meet in a month with one hand, made even sparser when he started attending uni. It ended up into annual dinners ever since he started working. His job, to them, did not “fit his status befitting someone of high class”. So, what? He's just some R&D probationary guy in a big arse corporation instead of department head, doesn't make his job any less awesome.

 

May as well stick with a story based on truth, aight? They'd probably notice the lack of the marks of menial labour in this body anyway. Which was a little strange, too, but who was Serin to complain?

 

“It wasn't that bad,” he began, as if mentally contemplating his experience. “The head of the house didn't let me do much work, if there was any at all. They let the other kids do it, and that was very weird.”

 

Some adults looked uncomfortable at… whatever it was that Serin just said. Still, he continued. “I got private lessons and things like that, and the head didn't like me working because it'll “ruin my complexion” or something like that.”

 

That was true for his mum. “The whiter and paler the skin, the richer you are,” she said a lot of times whenever she felt like dragging him along for a family reunion. She and her siblings like showing off their kids on who was the palest, to the point that his mum would even force him to use whitening products just to brag at how rich they were and just how much they could afford the treatment. Serin just gave it away to their maids.

 

“That and the head doesn't want me to ruin my um… “good looks”? I guess.” All of the adults in Serin's vicinity looked… murderous.

 

“Well… Sometimes, the head would lock me in my room if I'm behaving badly. The other ma- slaves would just leave food by my bed.”

 

The first one too was a technical truth, the second one was true until he left for secondary. If he's going to marry a rich girl, may as well look bearable. “Or if you are fishing for a rich old man knocking on death's door, give them something they'd give for.”

 

Heh, Llewellyn Maya, what a fucking weirdo.

 

The Llewellyn couple simply accepted the fact that Serin had no interest in women. Or rich old men. They just consoled themselves with the fact that Serin tended to date rich, if not intelligent, boys his age. They refused to accept less. Maybe that was why Serin wasn't disowned and cut off yet….

 

Well shite, Serin just realised that his parents might make a spectacle of his funeral, his mother waging war on allergens and then his father making some sort of sudden enterprise-wide turnaround to make their products hypoallergenic. There would be press conferences, media appearances, charity events, drives, parades, and whatever they could get their hands on. 

 

“You don't have to return to that place,” it looked like Deshanna was eavesdropping. She had this resolute expression that brokered no argument. All the adults mirrored her expression. “We are your family now, we  _ will _ protect you.”

 

Aw, that was nice. Serin appreciated the feels. He did appreciate the twenty bodyguards that carried him to safety when he was twelve after George Quinn pushed him into a mud puddle after school. He also appreciated the biggest one looming over George the next day especially. He did feel bad the second time they meet at Oxford six years later, but that was fucking hilarious then. Also, the second meet up had plenty of… happy memories. Very happy memories. Since George decided to become a rugby star by secondary.

 

Nostalgia aside, Serin was well aware that gathering sympathy and good impressions will make this life comfortable at best, dead by tomorrow at worst.

 

The adults then seemed content with Serin's previous answers, no longer interested to press for details. The kids looked twice as curious, but their parents’ stern expression probably kept them from asking for more. Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel, on the other hand, approached Serin with the street, most resolute expression on her face.

 

“Were your parents with you when you escaped, Dalen?”

 

Serin shook his head. “They were already gone before I got there.”

 

Gone in another world, that is.

 

Deshanna straightened, and then placed a hand over his hair. “Not you are only a part of Clan Lavellan, but now you are a child under my care, a child not in flesh but in spirit.”

 

Does that mean Serin's adopted now?

 

“From this day forth, I am your guardian, teacher, and parent - Serin, of Clan Lavellan.”

 

The fuck why his cheeks were wet? Or his face was hot? Oh yes, feels, family of choice and all that. God damn, his only weakness. That was also the reason why Serin never watched Bambi with Kota ever again.

 

Holy fuck, another down side. Without modern technology, no internet, tv, social media,  _ and “ _ Yuri on Ice!!!.” He put off watching it since episode 3 so that he could binge watch! Jesus fucking Christ, how was Serin supposed to know how it ended? Last time he heard, episode 10 was coming out that night, and then he up and died from  _ peanut butter fucking cups! _ Already, his misery levels went past 9000. That made him cry even harder.

 

Deshanna also took that as her cue to hug him again. Serin appreciated it. With no chance to know what Katsuki Yuri’s result with the qualifying cup, but suspecting that he'd win because of course, Yuri was the protagonist. 

 

“I want to go home,” Serin sobbed. “I want to see Yuri.”

 

Deshanna patted him comfortingly, rubbing circles in his back. With ease, she carried off Serin's sobbing form, going past whispering adults and pointing children. Serin could care less, he'll never know YOI’s conclusion, nor will he be able to watch Star Wars Rogue One showing two weeks later, nor will Serin ever have the chance to finish the last mission in Watchdogs 2, and Serin will never ever post another video of him dicking around GTA V in just his boxers with a random cute guy,  amassing millions of views from fujoshi and fudanshi alike. His garbage kingdom, gone.  _ Forever _ .

 

The sight of Deshanna's leather/animal hide tent just made Serin feel worse. That's probably about twenty Bambi mums. 

 

It took Deshanna five minutes to console him.

 

It was more like knock him out, though. She did something and then there was a glow, and the next thing knew, there's an IV attached to his arm.

 

\-----------

 

Francis Porter had blond hair, blue eyes, and a beauty mark close to his lips on the left side of his face. When Serin sent his mum a picture, she said “that's good luck, keep him.”

 

Serin didn't feel lucky when he choked on what was basically homemade Reese's.

 

The semi-familiar sight of white sheets, white walls, and white everything made Serin's head hurt. He did appreciate the white trash boi who was half-lying on Serin's left, head on his arms.

 

Serin chuckled. “Hey.”

 

Damn did Serin sound hoarse. His throat and face were itchy as fuck, his lungs felt like the time he tried horse riding but ended up getting chased by geese across the yard, and his eyes felt like the time Simba was trying to wake Mufasa up after the wildebeests stampede. In summary: he felt like shite.

 

Francis stirred, and then he brightened up when he saw Serin's puffy grey eyes. There were dark circles under his eyes, and there was a… grey, in his pallor. “Hey yourself.”

 

“Heh.” Serin tried to move, but his lungs screamed in protest. Soon enough he'll have twenty complaint forms. “You got me antihistamines?”

 

Francis nodded. “I had a date like that once -I didn't knew she was allergic, and she didn't know I had shrimp in the sandwiches- had to take her to the ER. Every time I bring anything shellfish or nuts, I bring 'em too. Once was enough.”

 

Francis's deep voice and hint of a  Southern American accent just made him really banging. Whoa, there goes Roddy, going up and about.

 

“What happened to the bee?”

 

“We had to remove his stinger from your neck, he died five minutes later.”

 

Serin closed his eyes. “Sir Winfield died an innocent bee, trying to make it through his short lifespan gathering pollen and cultivating his hive. He died a warrior's death.”

 

Francis laughed, shoulders shaking and whoever invented thin clingy muscle shirts should get a raise or something. Those back muscles were just fit.

 

Soon enough, Francis devolved into chucking, then into half-hearted “hahahaha”s, sputtering into awkward coughs, before dying altogether. Sweat started to form in the blond's forehead. “I guess this is our first and last date, huh.”

 

Serin chuckled. “Believe me or not, I had worse.”

 

“Really?” Francis piped, and then winced. “Uh, sorry, I don't think you'd want to recall that.”

 

“Nah, it's fine. I was visiting my maternal relatives. Met a boy in the mall, we were both eighteen. I thought he was cute, since he had this nifty whole-body tattoo. Turns out he's from a gang and we ended up getting chased by helicopters while in a speedboat in the Pacific.” Serin had a bit of a coughing fit, but he continued when it died down. “On paper, he kidnapped me and turned it into a ransom thing. In reality, our granddads were rival gang heads. Thankfully, mum has plenty of older brothers and nephews.”

 

Francis was slack jawed. His blue eyes were bright with interest. “Wow. That's… Wow.”

 

Serin laughed. “He was so convinced we'd be Romeo and Juliet, and he even had some suicide daggers with him to do the deed. We were dating about a month then before the speedboat incident. Should have known something was up when he won't come with me to my gram’s house, but was just fucking dandy to take me to his house.”

 

“Something must have happened, if he was convinced that a helicopter chase was worth it.”

 

“It was pretty stupid. He was pissed and speeding, police found his slosh levels were over 9000, and then took a sneak peek under seat because of the tattoos. He had a kilo of heroin. He assaulted the officer then sped off. I  was asleep, aight? Was pissed too, so didn't feel a thing until I got sea sick.”

 

“You were both… Angry?” Francis prodded.

 

“Right, that, no. In America it's raging. Here, it's drunk. Pissed, sloshed, hammered.”

 

Francis had the look of someone filling an important piece information to be reviewed later. “I'm glad you're alive, then.”

 

Shite, Serin _ was _ alive. So the fantasy elf thing was just that, a fantasy. Pretty realistic for a dying dream. Which meant…

 

“Do you know Yuri On Ice!!!?” Serin blurted, excited. “I only watched three episodes, and there should be about ten. I really want to check it out.”

 

“Sure thing, I'd love to watch it with you.”

 

All of the things Serin thought he would never see again, things that were gone forever, he can _ have. _ Anime, Star Wars, his social media followers.

 

“We should start a religion,” Serin declared next. The urgency was great in him.

 

Francis raised a brow, but his skills was stupid and big. “I thought we are to serve our noodle-y overlord?”

 

Serin snorted. “Screw that, I have a following of boys, girls, neither, and both who would sell their and other people's souls with interest just to get gum I chewed on. Our demands are simple, after all.”

 

“And what are those demands?”

 

“More page views and social revolution. Maybe aggressively push green energy usage and save the environment. Maybe cure cancer while we're at it.”


End file.
